Saturday, April 30, 2005

Shopping for a skating dress[translation: small and spandex and terrifying]Should be reserved for a day that did not proceed an entire fat week

I learned that today

It’s probably not the only thing that I learned todayBut my memory was erasedBy short skirtsAnd flesh-colored fabricAnd rhinestones[which, in skating slang, are referred to only as ‘stones]And velvetAnd LycraAnd tights

And the overwhelming desire to:a. never eat againb. gouge out my eyes with a sharp poking device

Jimmy John's is the sandwich shop I frequented in college, you see. When I was a freshman, it was mostly confined to Big 10 campuses, but over the course of my education, the Jimmy John's franchise expanded (much like my brain and my hatred for higher learning).

So now you can get Jimmy John's sandwiches and not venture a foot onto a college campus.

Which I tried for the first time today.

I danced (the rumba, if you must know) into the Jimmy John's by my office. I sang my order for a #6 (vegetarian, even though I'm not).

And then I stood at the pick-up counter and itched myself.

Something wasn't right and it gave me the hives.

This is what wasn't right: there were old people working at Jimmy John's. Not mostly stoned art students. Old people.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

My day was all fucked up because I spent it in an office-wide meeting/training session/group hug instead of at my desk.

Totally screwed my equilibrium.

Normally, my days go something like this:8:30: get to work, drink a cup of coffee and a glass of water9:00: small snack, glass of water 11:00: small snack, glass of water12:30: small snack, glass of water2:00: lunch, glass of water4:00: small snack, glass of water[note: genuine work is generally squeezed in between my feedings]

Today, my day was more like this:8:30: get to work, drink a cup of coffee and a glass of water9:00: sit on my ass 11:00: sit on my ass, eat one mint12:30: sit on my ass, have lunch 2:00: sit on my ass, eat one mint4:00: sit on my ass

When I got home from work at 6:00, I was shaky and ravenous and hungry like a butcher.

In a span of approximately eleven minutes, I downed:Four (4) pieces of pizza.Three (3) Reese’s peanut butter eggs, left over from Easter.Two (2) Girl Scout cookies.One (1) bowl of leftover vegetables from last night’s dinner.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Big fucking deal. This bitch is aggressive. I’m not afraid of a little rough play.

I am, however, the smallest person in the league. Last Sunday, it proved to be a slight disadvantage.

It was the first period of play. I was mixing it up in front of the net, because that’s what players with no skill do. The puck got thrown my way and, because of the nature of the game, I got crosschecked.

Across the neck.

I can’t imagine that the opponent who crosschecked me did it with any malicious intent. He wanted me out from the front of the net; his crosscheck would have been benign to any other player in the league, just making contact with the player’s chest padding.

But I’m 5’2”. And he hit my neck.

And it bruised. And it swelled up. And I felt like I had tonsillitis for nearly a week.

When I came home, my neck looking like a battered woman’s, my mother was appalled.

I was in pain, so I might have been stupid enough to admit that I wasn’t wearing a neck guard. And she is my mom, so she might have been irritated enough to call me an irresponsible jackass.

Sunday, April 24, 2005

It wasn’t what I expected to do with my Sunday; if I’d known, I would have gone to bed sometime before 4:00 am with a lot less alcohol in my bloodstream.

But it’s something you do.

A childhood friend’s dad died. I found out at 10:00 am and was at the viewing at visitation at 2:30. In between, I skated and I thought (too much) about my own dad’s death.

I should probably point out that my dad hasn’t died yet. But I look at his family history and his health and his lifestyle and it doesn’t add up to a long life. Odd-timed phone calls draw fears of the news of the heart attack that seems absurdly inevitable.

I don’t know why I’m so morbid.

The viewing was held in the same funeral home, in the same room, that my grandma’s funeral was held. The casket was in the same place. The uncomfortable, worn, tear-stained furniture sat in the same configuration.

I’m not sure if it was the memories or the orchids, but I found it awfully hard to breathe.

But it wasn’t about me. It was about Katy and it was about doing the right thing.

I’ll get to that tomorrow. I need some time to turn it over in my head.

Thursday, April 21, 2005

When I was a kid, I used to go to my dad’s hockey games. The league he played in was recreational and largely uninterested; I mostly liked to see him dressed up in all of his equipment and run around, unattended, in the stands.

It’s funny what you remember.

I remember driving home from a game with Dad. I was thirsty; he was drinking out of his water bottle. When I asked for a sip, Dad told me to wait until we got home, because I wouldn’t like the dirty water from the locker room.

But I was really thirsty and, truth be told, really impatient. After parking in the driveway, Dad went around to the trunk for his hockey bag and I went for the water bottle.

I gagged on the beer.

I was old enough to know what it was. It scared me. I knew that drinking and driving was reckless and illegal. Dad’s decision made me angry.

I held my fear and my anger in a knot in my stomach for weeks.

A good number of years later, Meg was napping as she and Dad were driving home from one of her hockey tournaments. She woke up and Dad was drinking beer. She berated him. She told Mom when she got home. She expressed her disappointment without a hint of shame.

She did what I was too afraid to do. Meg called out what I bottled up.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

As of late, I have been blogging nothing but crap. Don’t tell me otherwise, kids, because if there is one thing in my life that I can be honest about, it’s my writing. I know when it’s good; I know when it isn’t.

But I’m none too thrilled about sacrificing my ability to write for this constant state of euphoria. Giddiness should not cancel literariness! Not all authors should go the way of Plath and Hemingway!

My writer’s block has built itself into a brick wall.

And I’m so hardheaded that I just keep slamming my forehead, hoping that my persistence will be rewarded and I will live to see another day of writing that is not so mediocre that it makes my skin crawl.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

I like Norah Jones when I’m going to sleep.I like Jack Johnson when it’s sunny.I like Eminem when I feel homesick.I like Jamie Cullum over the loudspeakers at skating practice.I like Aerosmith when my dad forgets that he’s not Steven Tyler.I like David Gray when I need to stimulate my brain. I like Maroon 5 when I feel like singing loud enough to make myself hoarse. I like Counting Crows on rainy days.I like Justin Timberlake when I’m in the mood for sugary pop.I like Damien Rice when I’m thoughtful.I like Missy Elliott when Meg and my cousin Liz are around.I like Jason Mraz in the summer.I like Sarah McLaughlan when I want to feel strong.I like Sugar Ray when its muted.I like Matt Nathanson when I just want to be.I like The Monkeys when Mom is dancing. I like Howie Day when I put aside his assault charge.I like 50 Cent when I’m driving to soccer. I like Tracy Chapman when my sister is singing along.I like Ari Hest when I’m too exhausted to think.I like Rachael Yamagata when I need a kick in the ass.I like Backstreet Boys, but only when “I Want it That Way” is playing.I like the RENT soundtrack when I’m in the shower. I like John Mayer when I want to be reminded that I’m not the only one.I like Dave Matthews Band anytime.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

When I was threeish, I took to calling my dad Robbie. I did this because I was born to be a smartass and because there would be no justice in this world if I did not use my gift.

Dad was not amused.

In the flickering light of the fireplace, he sat me down at his knee. We were a picture out of one of those old-country style Christmas cards that everyone sends out. You know. The ones that depict the quaint, magical Christmas and the happy, simple family. Wholesome bullshit that’s nice to think about but ridiculous to believe exists.

Anyway. I called Dad by his first name and he didn’t like it.

“You will know a lot of Robbies in your life,” he told me. “But you will only have one dad.”

I never called him by his first name again. Because I was the world's smartest three-year-old and because it’s true. He’s the only dad I’ll ever have.

This makes the oh-my-Lord-you-are-exactly-like-my-father-just-26-years-younger-and-not-my-blood-relative-thank-God things that Colin does just a little more terrifying.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

That’s a complete fabrication, actually. I could tell you why. It’s embarrassing. It’s weak. It’s not who I want to be or what I want to represent. But I will; I’ll tell.

I can’t give up on her.

I just can’t. I know that I should. I know that I’m setting myself for more of the same dishes Heather keeps serving – heaping helpings of hurt and anger and all-you-can-eat bitterness – and I don’t get up from the table.

I invite her to play indoor soccer.

I extend an invitation for her to join my outdoor summer team.

Next I will propose that we move in together and get best friends (I want –st –ends, but will roll over and give it up at any hint of pressure because I am a pushover and was born to be used) tattoos.

Monday, April 11, 2005

On Sunday morning, my dad’s side of the family – me, Meg, Mom, Dad, three cousins, two aunts and one uncle – went up to the high school for the varsity baseball team’s pancake breakfast fundraiser. The breakfast left much to be desired; we went mostly to support one of my cousins, a pitcher on the team. My Dad went to eat sausage.

Just after dinner tonight, my grandma popped in to drop off loaves of banana bread for my sister and me. Just because.

I have six aunts. Four live within a half-hour of me.

I have seven uncles. Five live within a half-hour of me. One is in Chicago. One is in heaven.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

The papers haven’t been signed and the t’s haven’t been crossed but it’s been offered and the benefits have been explained and the salary has been discussed and unnecessary orientation has been scheduled and the location of my desk has been debated. I have a job, but I don’t officially have a job. I don’t officially have a job because I am superstitious and silly and afraid to get too excited and that Chicken Little is right and the sky is falling.

When officially official, singing it from the rooftop will commence. Eventually. When the job is officially, irrevocably mine. Officially officially irrevocably mine.

The last two months have treated me amazingly well. I haven’t kept that a secret.

What is making it all just a little more fun is a hell of a hot streak when it comes to finding excellent, fun and fabulous new music to which I’ve been rocking out to while growing up.

Turn up the volume. Whatever happens – if Colin murders 97 innocent children and kittens and I never get that bloody fucking new job that my boss offered me but his VP refuses to fucking step up to the plate and make official – these CDs will forever smell like early 2005.

Which, hopefully, I can look back fondly on.

Without prefacing with "this fucking bastard I once knew" or "the biggest mistake I ever made" or the like.

Saturday, April 02, 2005

1. She has very red hair2. She is a horrible driver3. She likes fun games4. She will enthusiastically eat Indian, Thai and sushi with me. Unlike anyone else I know5. She had a car named Jerry6. She has a car named The Running Egg7. She is blatantly and unapologetically political8. She always thinks that my idiotic schemes are brilliant9. She reads John Irving10. She couldn’t possibly know less celebrity gossip11. She gives good nicknames12. She can talk to anyone. For long periods of time 13. She keeps up on the latest independent films so I don’t have to14. She doesn’t mind driving long distances for a good restaurant, an amazing used bookstore or a concert15. She tells good stories16. She never moves faster than a leisurely mosey17. She’s always five minutes late

Hi. I'm A.

Born, raised, educated in the Midwest, I am such a Midwesterner. So Midwestern, if you will.

I am: a blogger of 8+ years, forever searching for my next athletic challenge, hopelessly overscheduled and always, always eating.

I started So Midwestern right after I graduated from college, hoping to chronicle my transition to adulthood. Graduate school, four half marathons, two new nephews, three apartments, a trip to Africa, a sprinkle of heartbreak, dozens of unfinished knitting projects, four turns as a bridesmaid, 8,913 job applications and two full-time positions later: I’m fairly convinced that the day when I feel like a legitimate, full-fledged grownup will never come. So I’ll just keep on blogging.

I write about a little bit of everything and a lot of nothing. Toss my ramblings with a few pictures, a touch of swearing and an endless appreciation for the beauty that is David Beckham and you have So Midwestern. Welcome.